Chapter Text
This can’t be happening.
I watch helplessly as Roger storms into his room and starts packing his things—just shoving as much as he can into his worn-out duffel bag. There must be something I can say or do to keep him here, but I can’t think of what it might be. All I can think to do is try to stall him. “So. Santa Fe.”
Roger doesn’t answer me. He barely looks at me.
It’s almost hypocritical, I realize, as I ask Roger how he could let Mimi go like that. If he really cared that much, how was he willing to lose her in an instant? But it’s not so easy—I know how much I care about Roger, yet I can’t stop this from happening. Our friendship is slipping through my fingers.
I didn’t cry at Angel’s funeral. I didn’t cry when Roger told us all that he’s leaving. And now, I’m still stone-faced and quiet, a stark contrast to Roger’s shaky voice and overflowing emotion as he tells me that I don’t get it, that I don’t understand.
There’s nothing I can do. Roger’s made up his mind. Nothing I say will change that. He tells me I don’t understand; I want to understand, but he’s making it really goddamn difficult. The least I can do is say something nice to leave him with. But there’s so much anger, so much emotion—he’s getting so angry with me, and I find myself yelling.
I can’t remember the last time I’d had a fight with Roger. It hadn’t been recent, because I can’t remember ever feeling this pain, this burning feeling, in a way that I wanted to take it all out on him. I want to yell, to cry, to beg him for forgiveness—I don’t care how pathetic that would be—but Roger just grabs his bag and heads out the door for what could be the final time.
It leaves me feeling empty, as if my heart has been ripped right out of my chest. Honestly, that would probably hurt less than this. My head echoes with the silence that fills the loft.
How could I let this happen?
I’m losing everyone. Everything that matters to me has been stripped away in a matter of hours. I’m alone, left to grieve by myself.
And I can’t even cry.
When I wake up the next morning, I don’t immediately realize anything has changed. My room is the same. I put on my glasses and enter the main loft space; everything is the same. Then I see the other bedroom door, still wide open, and the emptiness beyond it.
The world still turns. But I feel lost.
I’ve been terrified of this since the day Roger got his diagnosis—terrified that I’d lose him for good—and now it's happening, becoming more of a reality every day. And I’m powerless to stop it. He’s gone, and I don’t think I can do anything to get him back.
I should hate him. I should have hated him for a long time. He’s said things and done things that should have made me hate him. But I didn’t. I don’t .
He’d say he didn't need me, then he’d beg for my forgiveness. He’d say he didn't care, then he’d come to me crying because everything hurt so much. He’d say he hated me, then he’d look to me for support when he didn’t have anyone else.
I was there for him through all of it, through the tears and sleepless nights, through the screaming and the days he couldn't get out of bed. Sometimes, I would feel a rush of anger when he begged me for help, but then I'd see the look in his eyes, or hear the pain in his voice, and I would immediately feel guilty. Because that was my best friend.
But now he’s gone. He’s beyond my reach. I hate that my first instinct is to try to reach him and give him the help he needs. That’s always what I’ve done, even ignoring my own needs. Yet I still want to reach him, even though I can feel myself bending under the pressure, close to breaking.
Did he ever consider what his leaving would do to me?
He’s left me alone. I have no one to turn to—no one I would be okay with bothering, anyway. Maybe that’s my fault, though. (Maybe it’s all my fault.)
The phone rings, shattering the silence. I don’t make a move towards it.
“Mark Cohen, it’s Alexi Darling from Buzzline.”
Oh, shit . I’d completely forgotten.
“I’d like to give you another chance to meet with me. How does the 7th sound? I have an availability at one o’clock. See you then.”
She’s hung up before I can even get up. I feel like I might be sick. How had I forgotten?
No, I know exactly how. I was at a friend’s funeral, for fuck’s sake. At least Alexi was understanding enough to give me another chance.
Somehow, I make it through the week. The day of the meeting rolls around, and I feel ill the entire time. I answer all of Alexi’s questions; I don’t try to negotiate too hard on the salary. And I leave with a job and a newfound weight on my shoulders.
I’d like to think Roger would be proud of me for getting out there and finding work. But if I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that I don’t know what Roger would think. I don’t know Roger at all.